


A Series of Neighbourly Epistles

by slytherco



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anonymity, Auror Harry Potter, Banter, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blind Date, Bottom Harry Potter, Brief Draco Malfoy/Other, Curse Breaker Draco Malfoy, Dirty Talk, Draco Malfoy Has Long Hair, Draco Malfoy in a leather jacket, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Letters, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Neighbors, One Night Stands, Pillow Talk, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Snark, Top Draco Malfoy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and it's glorious, anonymous notes, in general there's sex but it's not graphic ok??, some French food, that turn out to be possibly-not-so-one-night, the morning after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22991554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/pseuds/slytherco
Summary: Harry finds himself in a very awkward spot when he calls the Aurors on his neighbour… having very loud sex. As in not actually killing anyone. He writes him a disgruntled note and thus begins a very interesting exchange. When they finally decide to meet, Harry’s not quite prepared to find out who his mystery neighbour turns out to be.Or for everything that happens next, for that matter.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 81
Kudos: 996





	A Series of Neighbourly Epistles

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired [by this Tumblr post](https://zigster-ao3.tumblr.com/post/190699690992/someone-please-turn-this-into-a-drarry-fic?fbclid=IwAR33S5ya92zmUFAIwPBMCAGSpWEZerGw-y1ev5Mbd3sModGRohC8OKa_XCQ)
> 
> Special thanks go to the wonderful [gallifrey1sburning](https://gallifrey1sburning.tumblr.com/) for the beta!
> 
> "This was supposed to be a one-shot" should be the title of my autobiography.

_**Saturday** _

  


_Thump. Thump. Thump._

_“Hnnngh…”_

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

_“Aaaah! Ah- AH!”_

  


“Auror Department, what is your emergency?”

“Um, hi, I—”

“Mr Potter?” The witch on call flushed deep red, prominent even in the greenish flames of the Floo. “What is the emergency, Sir?”

Her face morphed into one of absolute devotion and utmost professionalism. Harry wanted to roll his eyes, already deeply regretting calling the Department. She looked nice enough, a kind face with dimples and dark, curly hair. _Perky_ , was the word. And, apparently, she was very excited to talk to him. Great.

He had made a promise, though; Auror Harry Potter was not to solve any crimes, follow or pursue any suspects, or, most importantly, interfere with any suspicious or criminal activity while off-duty. Letting out a deep sigh, Harry cursed the bloody drunks from two months ago. How was he to know it was a staged kidnapping for a bachelorette party? And how much longer Robards was going to be mad at him for that?

Well, better to play by the rules, at least for now.

  


_Thump. Thump. Thump._

_“Fuck, please! I need-”_

_“Oh, I will help you with that.”_

_“Please, please, help me!”_

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

  


Bloody hell.

So maybe Harry was a bit drunk. Maybe he was just innately suspicious. And, sure, maybe he was bored out of his mind on a Saturday night, mindlessly flipping through the channels, gorging himself on takeaway curry and washing it down with beer.

Maybe he had hoped something interesting would happen; so sue him.

No matter the circumstances, the noises coming from the flat next door did not sound like drunk civilians having a blast. A man was clearly in pain, screaming for help, and the thumping noises suggested assault. Harry was practically itching to run there at once and see what was going on, to help someone in need. But following his instincts could cost him his job — the very job that enabled him to help people.

Harry hated being powerless, stuck in a fucking Catch-22.

“Mr Potter?” The woman prompted, her voice laced with concern.

“Oh! Uh, sorry. I think there’s something going on in my building, er… There’s someone screaming? And I heard calls for help, um, like very loud shouts. Could you please send someone to check it out?”

The witch immediately straightened, her face turning serious. “Of course, Mr Potter, the Aurors will be there as soon as possible. Hang in there.”

She ended the call and Harry went back to the couch to wait for the Aurors, like the model citizen he had to play while off-duty.

  


_Thump. Thump. Thump._

_“Oh, fuck! Yes, yes, yes! Harder!”_

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

_“Oh_ — _my_ — _God! Yes, give me your fat cock! Harder!”_

  


Oh. _Oh. OH, NO._

Harry ran back to the Floo so fast, he nearly banged his head on the mantle.

The dark-haired witch’s face greeted him once again. Her eyes bugged when she saw it was him again but she quickly recovered, flashing him a million-watt smile. “Mr Potter, it’s you again!” Harry cringed inwardly as she batted her eyelashes at him. “Can I help you with something... else?”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Um, yeah. Have, uh. Have the Aurors left already?” His voice sounded so pained, he was surprised she didn’t catch on.

“Yes, Mr Potter, we dispatched a team immediately; they will be with you soon,” she said soothingly and bit her lip. “If it helps, I can stay on the line with you,” the witch added softly, and Harry swore she would have put a hand on his shoulder if it weren’t for the Floo.

He held back a groan. She thought he was in _distress_ , for fuck’s sake.

“No, really, it’s fine. I’m fine, I’ll just—” He cleared his throat. “I’ll just wait.”

Before she could say anything more, Harry ended the call and ran a hand down his face. He needed to talk to the Aurors before they barged in on his neighbour who wasn’t, in fact, doing anything illegal. Because no matter how much Harry wished it, having loud, obnoxious, and, apparently, _mindblowing_ sex was not illegal.

 _It bloody well should be_ , he thought.

He threw on a hoodie and hurried downstairs just in time — two men in dark-red Auror robes were walking toward his building from the nearby apparition point. 

“Potter!” One of them waved at Harry as they approached.

“Murray, Shaw,” Harry shook their hands, grateful they sent two newbies rather than someone who knew him well. Small victories.

“So, what’s going on up there? You said someone got beat up?” Murray asked jerking his head towards the building.

Harry cleared his throat and tried using his most Auror-like tone. “False alarm, boys. I tried calling it off but you were quick,” he forced a wide grin as the young Aurors puffed their chests proudly.

Shaw spoke up with his Irish lilt. “Shouldn’t we go up and check it out?”

“No! Um, I mean… There’s no need. I was, er, taking a nap and I misheard it. It was just a party,” Harry replied lamely, praying they didn’t pay enough attention in class to know they were absolutely required to check it out when called. He wasn’t ready to admit he mistook a headboard slamming into a wall for sounds of struggle. He would never be ready to admit that.

They looked at each other uncertainly. “Right, so I s’pose we can… call it a night then?” Shaw more asked than stated so Harry went for the last little push.

“Yep,” he nodded vigorously. “Go out for a pint, you deserve it,” He patted the man’s arm for better effect. Harry would forever remember that night as the one when something had finally overpowered his general dislike of his Saviour status: it was embarrassment.

His admiration for the young Aurors’ skill did the trick, as a few minutes later, both were on their way back to the apparition point, chatting happily.

Harry went back to his apartment and found the building quiet. He shrugged and went to the kitchen to find some snacks when—

  


_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

“Oh, come on!” Harry looked at the wall with disdain, as if it has personally offended him by being thin on purpose.

 _“Yesyesyes, harder, ah_ — _ah! Don’t stop!”_

_“You like that?”_

_“Yes, fuck, right there, I_ — _ah!_ — _I love it!”_

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

  


Harry hid his face in his hands, desperately trying to ignore the growing bulge in his pants. This wasn’t fucking happening.

He was getting a hard-on from listening to his neighbour have sex. To be fair, it must have been quite decent sex, judging from the noises. Still. Unacceptable.

Promptly deciding to walk it off, Harry opened another beer and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. He wasn’t going to be the only one that’s embarrassed.

His rowdy neighbour was in for a surprise message.

\---

_Hello -_

_Youre having sex so loud and scarily I called the Aurors._

_Maybe cast a silencing charm??_

_P.S. I sent them away when I heard you yell cock._

_P.P.S. Are you okay?? I know I’m not_

_\---_

***

**_Sunday_ **

  


Harry woke up to a light headache, courtesy of his late-night beers. He knew from experience that staying in bed all day would only make it worse so he downed a vial of hangover potion and decided to go out for a walk to the nearby muggle café. 

As soon as his wards locked behind him, Harry shot a quick look at the door next to his.

The note was gone.

Harry chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Serves him right.

\---

_Dear Neighbour,_

_My sincerest apologies for the disturbance on Saturday night. I had way too much to drink and was completely unaware of how loud I was being or that I had forgotten a silencing charm. It was truly an embarrassing occurrence for me and a lesson learned. I assure you, it will NOT occur ever again. As an offering of my deepest, most heartfelt remorse, please feel free to reach out for coffee or dinner anytime. On me._

_Sincerely,_

_Truly Sorry But Not Really Ashamed_

\----

Harry stared at the note he had found by his door. It was already waiting for him when he got back, a rumpled corner of high-quality paper peeking out from under the doormat.

 _Truly Sorry But Not Really Ashamed_? His nostrils flared at the cockiness. Then, he immediately flushed, remembering his own reaction to last night’s… incident. 

Harry didn’t know any of his neighbours; he had moved in two months prior and only knew that it was an exclusively wizarding area. He had no idea who this person was (or, more importantly, what they looked like) and yet Harry felt... intrigued.

He skimmed over the note once again, his eyes stopping at the coffee/lunch invitation. Frowning, Harry made a mental note to maybe go out more, because if that sounded like a date to him it must have meant he hadn’t gotten some in quite a long while.

A memory of the sounds from behind the wall came rushing back and his stomach fluttered. It felt strangely exciting to think about it, and to know that the neighbour _knew_ , maybe even thought about it, too. 

And, well, Harry didn’t really berate him, per se. And maybe that was a good thing.

For Merlin’s sake, he really needed to get laid.

Harry sat at the kitchen table and, after some hesitation, wrote down his reply.

\---

_Hello,_

_You’re proposing dinner? On you?_

_Weren’t you going at it with someone just yesterday?_

_Awaiting an explanation,_

_Neighbour from 5C_

\---

***

_**Monday** _

  


He found a reply the next morning, in the very same spot the first one was left. Harry vaguely wondered at what times his mysterious neighbour was leaving those; he hadn’t heard a sound from either the corridor or the other apartment since the Memorable Saturday Night Incident.

That was, ridiculously, what he had named it in his head — as if such occurrences required an official title. But nobody needed to know that.

Maybe the guy just took the silencing charm advice to heart. Which was very good.

Very good, indeed.

Oh, blast it.

Just this one time, right there, lounging on his tiny sofa, Harry could admit—even if it was just for a second—that he wouldn’t mind hearing it again. Fine, whatever.

The paper smelled faintly of expensive cologne. Decidedly male. Not that he _liked_ it or anything, it was just nice, objectively.

Harry opened the note and his exasperated smile grew wider as he read.

\---

_Dear 5C,_

_Have you ever heard of a one-night stand?_

_It’s when two consenting adults engage in sexual activities without entering a long-term relationship. It’s usually done for pleasure, stress-release, and a much-needed endorphin high. I’m not one to brag but all three objectives were accomplished that night, and with astonishing success, as you heard yourself._

_Sincerely,_

_Sex-Positive_

\---

So the guy was snarky and, apparently, pretty sure of himself. Then again, it’s not like Harry could disagree, having the information he had. He was already reaching for some paper when he saw the clock in his peripheral vision and cursed. He was late for brunch with Luna.

He would have to reply to the arsehat later. Harry left the note on the coffee table, shrugged on his jacket, and rushed out of the apartment. 

When he got back, after a bowl of delicious shawarma rice and a lovely chat with his friend, there was another note under his doormat. The handwriting in this one visibly faltered, as if it was scribbled in a rush, the letters sharper and more pointed.

\---

_Wait. Oh, dear Gods._

_Are you of age?_

_Please, be of age._

_Sincerely hoping not to be charged with a sex crime involving a minor,_

_Your (terrified) Neighbour_

\---

Harry laughed so loud he was afraid it might have been heard next door. He imagined his lack of reply for those few hours he was gone must have left the man a bit worried. Good. Harry had half a mind to leave him stewing for a few more but, eventually, decided not to tease him.

Not yet.

A rush of excitement went down his spine at the prospect of exchanging flirtatious, anonymous notes with a faceless man. A man who was, apparently, amazing in bed. Because it had clearly been a man, judging from the voices. And Harry was one hundred percent fine with that.

But first, he needed to address something. How on earth did Harry’s notes convey that he was a… What, a child?

Well, he couldn’t have that.

\---

_What made you think I’m not???_

_I’m 28._

_Sincerely,_

_Slightly Offended Grown Man_

_P.S. I know what a one-night stand is._

\---

_***_

_**Tuesday** _

  


Harry woke up with giddy anticipation that he immediately toned down; feeling almost idiotic, he went to take a shower and have some coffee, first.

When he decided he had stalled an appropriate amount of time not to appear overeager (to nobody else but himself), Harry trotted to the door and took a tentative peek outside.

He snatched the crisp note with a wandless _Accio_ and rushed back to the sofa, slamming the door behind him. 

\---

_Dear Grown Man,_

_That’s your main concern? I only thought you might be younger given the peculiar style of your notes._

_Nevertheless, a weight has been taken off my trembling shoulders and I am infinitely grateful for that._

_Then again, your composure rather surprises me, given you have heard a male voice screaming for someone’s cock,_ ergo _, there were two of those involved._

_I’d simply expect you to be more, well, repulsed by the idea._

_Please accept my deepest apologies (again),_

_A Free Man After All_

_P.S. It seems we are the same age. Just a fun fact._

_P.P.S. Also, your handwriting resembles that of a toddler. Hence my assumption. Don’t take it personally._

\---

Well, that was a lot of information. And very straightforward information, too. Of course, he wasn’t going to disregard the toddler comment, but it was the other stuff that drew his attention. Things like the fact that the man was, indeed, a man, and that he was Harry’s age.

And the cocks comment, Merlin. 

He bit his lip, deciding how to let it be known that this particular idea wasn’t _repulsive_ , that it was, in fact, anything but. The ridiculousness of the situation didn’t escape him, but Harry decided to go along with it, at least for the time being.

He grinned when it dawned on him exactly what to write next. If the Strange Neighbour was so bold, Harry would have to one-up him. He always had a hard time refusing a challenge.

\---

_Dear Quick-To-Judge,_

_Have you ever heard of bisexuality?_

_You see, a person can be sexually and romantically attracted to people of the opposite gender as well as their own. It’s a sexual orientation that’s sometimes misunderstood or mislabeled, but a real one nonetheless. I’m not one to brag either but I myself am bisexual and I assure you: we are not a myth._

_So, to dispel any doubts you might still have, the idea of two cocks involved doesn’t repulse me in the slightest. Quite the opposite, in fact._

_Both are accepted. The apologies, I mean._

_Sincerely,_

_The (not so mythical) Bisexual_

_P.S. I might have been a little sloshed when I wrote the first note. Just a fun fact._

_P.P.S. My handwriting is perfectly normal; not everyone takes such great care of small things._

\---

The reply was at his door two hours later (he only checked three times). Harry unfolded the elegant paper with shaky hands, curious whether his last note had had the desired effect. 

\---

_Dear Mythical Beast,_

_I see what you did there, and_ chapeau bas _, I applaud your wit, Nameless Neighbour._

_I’ll have you know I take great care of small things._

_Additionally, I take even greater care of the bigger ones... But you already know that._

_On a side note, this explains why you didn’t refuse that dinner invitation yet. Am I to think you’re still interested?_

_Bonus points if you’re attractive (I can assure you that I am. Very much so)._

_Sincerely,_

_Intrigued_

_P.S. I liked the old doormat better. The scarlet one is almost offensive. You should consider changing it back._

\---

Harry had to put the letter down and flip through the channels for a good 20 minutes for his body temperature to return back to normal. The cheeky bastard and his cock metaphors.

He frowned at the doormat remark. Harry had gotten it from Luna—a belated housewarming gift that she had charmed to clean guests’ shoes. Additionally, being the sweet, pure being that she was, Luna had made sure it had a Gryffindor colour to remind Harry of Hogwarts. 

By the time Harry came up with an appropriate response, it had gotten late. He sneaked out of the door and left his note. The corridor was eerily quiet, to the point where he felt someone was listening. 

Harry made a mental note to wear the Cloak of Invisibility the next time.

\---

_Dear Caretaker,_

_If I was going to refuse, I would have done it sometime between being taken for a toddler and having my home decor criticized._

_As it turns out, hearing you take it hasn’t shaken me to my core, no matter how hard and loud it was._

_I’m told I’m easy on the eyes but I suppose my word is as good as yours._

_Sincerely,_

_At Least a Seven_

_P.S. How come I have never seen you but you know when I change doormats?_

\---

***

_**Wednesday** _

  


A delicate, fluttering sound woke Harry up as the bright morning sun hit him in the face. He sighed and blindly reached for his glasses on the nightstand, trying to locate the source of the noise. Blinking sleepily, Harry was perplexed to see a small paper crane that had flown in through the cracked window. It was clearly charmed; its little wings wiggled as it landed neatly in front of him on top of the blankets. 

His neighbour’s sheer audacity startled an inelegant snort out of Harry. Of course, the bastard’s window was right next to his. He rubbed his eyes and put on his glasses.

As soon as he reached for the crane, it gracefully unfolded itself into a smooth sheet of paper, all folds and wrinkles gone. His stomach jumped in anticipation.

\---

_Dear Scarlet (I shall continue to call you “Scarlet” as long as that atrocious doormat remains at your threshold),_

_I have a feeling you might be more than a measly seven._

_Food for thought: I was not the one, as you so elegantly put it, taking it. Hard and loud._

_Scared?_

_I hope you enjoy your morning,_

_Your Rude Awakening_

_P.S. I moved in four months ago and I floo and apparate most of the time. Don’t let my nightly activities mislead you_ — _I do value my privacy._

\---

Oh. Oh, wow. 

Harry’s eyebrows shot up at the note. That wasn’t even an implication, that was an unabashed statement, balancing on brag.

Closing his eyes was a mistake. Harry’s morning hard-on just got a hundred times worse as his mind supplied him with an image of a slender, faceless man pounding into him so vigorously the walls shook. Strong, capable arms holding him down, fingers digging into his hips, hot breaths on the back of his neck. He grunted and turned onto his stomach to cool off, burying his face in the pillows. The vivid sensations didn’t stop, though; Harry could almost hear the sound of a headboard banging on the wall and—

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Oh, sweet Merlin and Morgana, no. This was not happening _again_. 

The sound was quieter this time but unmistakably there, the pace somewhat slower, languid.

Nearly all of Harry’s blood travelled south with impressive speed as he heard a low moan coming from behind the wall.

_I hope you enjoy your morning._

He was alone. And, apparently, he was giving Harry _a show_.

Another moan, followed by a grunt.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Harry groaned under his breath. There was no point in fighting this. He was only human.

He slipped his hand into his pyjama bottoms, groaning in relief.

\---

_Dear Drama Queen,_

_You wish._

_My morning was quite enjoyable. I can only hope yours was, too._

_How about that dinner? I’m free all week._

_May the afternoon live up to the challenge,_

_Your Soon-To-Be Date_

_P.S. Scarlet is a perfectly valid nickname and I’ll wear it like a badge of honour. It even sounds similar to one I got at school. You sort of remind me of the person who called me that, so I named you accordingly as well._

\---

Harry lay in his bed, sated and relaxed in that special way only a good wank could provide. When he came down, he sent his response the same way, folding the paper in two, too wrung out to bother with elaborate origami techniques. In hindsight, his note was somewhat risky but, in the end, that’s what it all was building up to, anyway.

He was ready to meet the Mysterious Neighbour.

The response came later that day.

\---

_Dear Scarlet,_

_It’s funny you mention it, as you remind me of someone I once knew as well. I had a silly crush on him all throughout school._

_So, a date? Very well, I am, and let me steal your phrasing,_ up _for it._

_Friday at seven? I hear the muggle restaurant down the street serves exquisite wine._

_See you soon, Scarlet,_

_The Dramatic Miscreant_

_P.S. Name-call me all you want, but what would life be without a little drama? And believe me when I say I’ve had my fair share of it over the years._

\---

Harry took a deep breath and grinned at the note. His Gryffindor heart had won over his Auror mind and it had paid off which, Harry sensed, wasn’t doing his ego any favours. He half-expected his mysterious neighbour to be more of a tease—maybe rile him up some more—but, apparently, he was just as affected as Harry by their morning… exercise. Something stirred in his pants at the thought and Harry quickly got up before he got himself worked up again. 

He scribbled down a confirmation and sent it out through the open window with a wave of his hand.

\---

_I’ll see you Friday._

\---

As the day went on, the reality of the situation slowly replaced the morning’s elation. 

Harry was going on a blind date with a complete stranger. This was fine. He was either going to be serial-murdered or… well. He flushed at the thought of what might happen if the date went well.

But what if he was older than he claimed? What if he was some kind of creep? Was all of this a bad idea? Questions flooded Harry’s mind and a strange feeling of uneasiness accompanied him for the rest of the night.

As he lay in bed that night, Harry decided to be a Gryffindor about it. Over the years, it had worked fine, regardless of the few significant bumps along the road. He would meet his mystery man, make it up as he went, and hope for the best.

***

_**Thursday** _

  


Time seemed to drag on with an unsettling kind of relaxed urgency. Harry was restless and unphased at the same time, a calm flame simmering in his gut, leaving him just bothered enough to be all over the place. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He was hanging out with Ron, Hermione, and Luna. Feeling guilty about having kept it a secret, he told them about his plans for Friday night over Chinese takeout at Luna’s flat. He censored some of the spicier details; his friends didn’t need nor want to know that he wanked to a complete stranger who was doing the exact same thing behind a paper-thin wall. 

_Note to self: call the building manager? Their isolation charms are a joke._

Their hostess was very enthusiastic because she was, well, Luna; she said it was high time Harry met someone special to come home to and that she had a good feeling about his date.

Ron and Hermione, on the other hand, were a bit more sceptical. 

“Harry, don’t you think it’s suspicious? What if this person is catfishing you?” Hermione asked, biting her lip. “Are you even sure they really live there?”

“They’re— what?” Ron looked to his wife with puzzlement that matched Harry’s. “They’re fishing— what?”

“ _Catfishing_. It’s a muggle term, it means that someone is lying about who they really are in order to get a date, get into a relationship, or have sex with someone.”

Harry choked on his Kung Pao chicken.

“Bloody hell, Hermione, warn a bloke,” Ron chuckled as he hit Harry on the back. He passed him a glass of water and grimaced. “Besides, Harry wouldn’t shag someone on the first date.”

The thing was, Harry absolutely would.

He finally managed to breathe again and grinned at his best mate, wiggling his eyebrows. “If he’s fit, I wouldn’t mind a quick shag. If you could hear—”

“No, no!” Ron covered his ears, his face turning crimson. “I don’t want to hear! I’m glad I didn’t hear!”

Harry laughed at him with Hermione and Luna in tow and silently prayed the bloke was fit.

“I think you should go, Harry,” Luna said softly, her wide eyes trained on him. She stood up to take the empty boxes to the kitchen and put her small hand on his cheek. “Whoever it is, just give him a chance. Everybody deserves one.”

That night, Harry hugged her goodbye tighter than usual.

***

_**Friday** _

  


Harry woke up with a heavy stomach, as if a live snake was coiled tightly around it. Merlin, what was he thinking? Hermione’s words echoed in his mind as Harry sat on the kitchen counter nursing a mug of lukewarm tea in the greyish light of the morning, like a victorian-age brooding poet awaiting his untimely demise.

Uncertainty crept in again and Harry considered some polite ways of calling it off. Maybe his friends were right? What if it was all a hoax? He shot a quick look at the clock. He still had some time to make up his mind.

All of a sudden, his wards chimed quietly. Ignoring the flutter in his chest, Harry put down his mug, walked to the front door and cracked it open. The corridor was quiet and empty. 

He looked down, about to go back and blame it on a stray cat or owl. A note was peeking out from under his doormat. With a hammering heart, Harry snatched it way too quickly and closed the door. 

It was the same high-quality paper as usual, the heady smell of cologne even more prominent than before. Harry’s pulse quickened at the thought that the man was _right there_ , outside his door,just seconds ago.

He opened the note with trembling fingers.

\---

_Dear Scarlet,_

_I took the liberty of making a reservation at La Campagne. It’s booked under the word “serpent.”_

_See you tonight,_

_Impatient_

\---

 _Serpent_? Interesting choice.

He couldn’t help but smile, some of his anxiety evaporating and untangling the knot of dread in his stomach. To be fair, the other guy also couldn’t possibly know what he was getting into. Worst case scenario, Harry would be arresting a predator. Best case scenario… he didn’t dare hope.

There was still time, but Harry knew he needed to pick something to wear. He left the note on the kitchen table and headed for the shower, smiling stupidly to himself.

***

The clock was approaching seven when Harry pushed the restaurant door open. He remembered walking past it at some point; the place wasn’t too posh, which decidedly soothed his nerves, but definitely not shabby, so maybe he wasn’t walking into a deathtrap after all. Looking around the cosy interior, Harry was relieved to realize his dark-green button-down and snug black jeans looked just fine for the occasion. He was told that the shirt brought out his eyes and hugged his chest nicely. The jeans… brought out other parts of him.

He was greeted by a middle-aged man in a suit with perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair.

“Bonjour, monsieur, Bienvenue à La Campagne!” the man spoke smoothly and Harry blanched. Thankfully, that was all the French he was subjected to as the waiter continued in English, albeit with a thick French accent. “My name is Jacques and I am your maître d' tonight. Do you have a reservation, sir?”

“Hi, uh, yes. I was told it’s under the word, er, _serpent_?” Harry replied, feeling silly.

“Ah, yes, your table is ready, sir. And your companion is already waiting,” he smiled brightly, unaware that Harry’s heart just went from zero to one hundred.

He took a step but turned back. “Erm, excuse me,” Harry mumbled and the maître d' gave him a polite look. “Is my, uh, companion… a male?”

The man’s eyebrows went up but he kept his composure. “Why yes, sir, he is, indeed, a male.”

“Right,” Harry cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“Take the stairs down. The VIP lounge is on the right,” The man gave him a brilliant smile. “I’m sure you will not be disappointed, sir.”

Somehow, Harry felt that the last remark wasn’t about the VIP lounge.

He went downstairs and stood before a mahogany door with a sign that said “VIP.” Refusing to overthink it, Harry pushed all his reservations to the back of his mind and pressed the handle.

The room wasn’t large; a roaring fireplace in the corner, some art on the walls. There were three tables covered with white cloths — all empty save for one, in the furthest part of the room.

Harry took a few tentative steps and stopped dead in his tracks.

The man’s back was turned and as far as Harry could tell, he hasn’t heard him approach yet. He was clad all in black, making him almost invisible in the dimly lit room; the only thing that stood out was his hair. His long, straight hair, reaching below his shoulder blades, tied with a black band into a low ponytail. Harry was hardly a poet, but its colour resembled white gold steeped in moonlight, nearly veela-like. It seemed… familiar, in a way. Harry could smell that intoxicating cologne again, engulfing him like a cool mist and it slowly dawned on him: he’d found his mystery man.

Then, something glimmered in the candlelight as the man straightened his arm. He was wearing some sort of a signet ring. Funnily, from the distance, it looked exactly like one Harry remembered from almost ten years ago. 

Suddenly, old memories struck Harry in a flash of images, grounding him in the moment.

_Skinny, pale fingers of a frightened, 18-year old boy fiddling nervously with a silver ring that he probably got from his father. The murky courtroom lighting reflecting faintly off the engraved metal. The band, rubbed clean from being turned around his pinky finger hundreds of times since they’d unlocked the shackles; a nervous habit betraying his true feelings._

_The family crest, barely visible when a trembling hand disappeared into his mother’s hair, holding her tightly. “One year of probation,” they had just said._

_The touch of cold metal when their hands shook._

_“Thank you. For everything.”_

But… No. No, it couldn’t be—

“Malfoy?”

He realized he choked out the name only when the blond spun around in his seat in a swift, cat-like move. And in the next second, Harry’s world came crashing down.

It was him. His mystery neighbour was Draco Malfoy.

He was looking at Harry with increasing shock, his grey eyes trained on him, mouth agape. Harry realized his face must be a mirror image of bewilderment; he shook his head and took another step.

The blond jumped out of his seat with astonishing grace and straightened his posture. And then, Draco Malfoy, the boy—no, the _man_ —Harry hadn’t seen for nearly ten years, stood before him.

He was wearing a tight, black leather jacket over a white shirt, a black tie, and tailored black trousers. Harry tried really hard not to notice how he filled out over the years; Malfoy wasn’t the skinny, sunken shell of a boy Harry remembered from the trials. He’d gained some muscle; his shoulders were broader, and the trousers fit well around his thighs. His skin was still porcelain-white, but the sickly shadows Harry remembered from the trials were gone from under his eyes. The only thing that hadn’t changed were the eyes themselves — a piercing grey, gleaming like quicksilver, currently trained on Harry in stunned disbelief.

He cursed inwardly. Malfoy looked hot.

“Potter,” he whispered, more to himself than Harry. He was blinking at him, completely shell-shocked, pale eyelashes fluttering wildly.

Harry’s mouth was moving but no sounds were coming out. “I— I can’t believe…” He finally managed to choke out.

“Oh, Circe, of all the…” Malfoy suddenly _snorted_. And then, he _laughed_ with a slightly manic look on his face. He seemed to be talking to himself again when he spoke between huffs. “Just when everything seemed— No,” he finally looked at Harry who faltered a bit under his intense gaze. “Potter. It’s really you.”

“Did you— Did you know it was going to be me?” Harry couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“I didn’t,” Malfoy replied sternly. “I swear, I didn’t know. I told you, I’ve been living there for four months, I—”

“All right, all right,” Harry lifted his hands in a calming gesture. “I believe you,” he said and found that he really did.

Malfoy looked just as stunned as Harry felt. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably and Harry squirmed. The blond was looking him up and down and something flashed in his eyes, almost like a resigned longing, before disappearing again.

“So. Um, do you— Er,”

Malfoy lifted a silencing hand before Harry formed a coherent sentence.

“I will understand if you don’t wish to spend your time with the, ah, likes of me,” he spoke in a collected tone but there was an unmistakable tilt to his voice that betrayed him. 

The thing was, years of unbridled rivalry and shameless spying had taught Harry to pick up on every single one of Malfoy’s little tell-tales. He felt his stomach flutter at the knowledge of how little it took for him to slip right back into it after so many years. Harry took a step forward and, tilting his head, caught a glimpse of Malfoy licking his lips in a self-conscious gesture. 

_Whoever it is, just give him a chance. Everybody deserves one._

Harry thought about the notes. About Saturday night and, Merlin, Wednesday morning. About the strange obsession of two teenage boys and the two men they had both become.

Feeling hot beneath his collar, he smiled sheepishly. “Malfoy, it’s been ten years. I... had hoped I could at least have dinner. With my— neighbour.”

Malfoy exhaled softly, the tips of his cheeks turning pink. 

Before either of them had the chance to say anything more, a waiter waltzed in, carrying two menus. Seeing their peculiar stand-off, he stopped, looking at them with raised eyebrows, unsure of the protocol. “Good evening, I…”

Seeing as Malfoy was still distracted and going through some kind of an epiphany, Harry was the first to gather his wits. “Hi, thanks for the menus. We’ll take a few minutes to decide, if that’s all right.”

“Of course, sir, I’ll be back with you soon.” The waiter turned on his heel, visibly relieved to escape the tension, and left them alone.

Harry waved the menus at Malfoy, raising a brow. “Shall we?”

“I— Yes,” He cleared his throat. “Yes, let’s sit.”

Malfoy seemed to have gotten over whatever inner battle he was having; relaxing a little, he took a seat opposite Harry and opened his menu. A strand of blond hair hung from his head and he absently tucked it behind his ear. Rethinking the last few days, the notes, and his whole bloody life in general (and maybe that leather jacket, too), Harry watched Malfoy’s long fingers skim across the wine list.

He started when Malfoy suddenly spoke.

“Potter? Everything all right?” Harry realized he was staring and opened his mouth to apologize when he saw a small grin tugging at the corner of Malfoy’s mouth. His face felt unnervingly hot.

“I just…” He huffed in amusement, fingering the corner of the menu. “Now that I think about it, I should have known it was you,” he shrugged.

Malfoy hummed thoughtfully. “Don’t beat yourself up too much. Even I didn’t figure it out, and between the two of us…”

“Oh shut—” Harry started, but laughed halfway, seeing Malfoy’s smirk. The laughter died out when perfect, white canines flashed in the candlelight and Harry imagined them grazing his neck. Or the inside of his thigh. He needed to change the subject. “So. Uh, if something were to give me away…” He looked at Malfoy with raised eyebrows.

Malfoy bit his lip and Harry immediately hated it. “I’m not sure if I could recognize your handwriting, not after such a long time. I just had this nagging _feeling_ ,” He squinted at Harry. “I’d say it was the ‘ _you wish’_ ,” he huffed, eyes going unfocused for a split second. “And your abhorrent doormat,” he added with a grimace.

_You remind me of someone I once knew. I had a silly crush on him all throughout school._

“It’s a normal doormat,” Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised I didn’t recognize that snark,” Malfoy pursed his lips playfully. “And all the drama, and the, ah, general pratishness,” He smiled lopsidedly.

“That’s not even a word, Potter.”

“And yet, it fits you.” Harry tilted his head, biting back a grin, as Malfoy considered him.

Another staring match, like hundreds they’d had before. This Malfoy was so different, yet the challenge in his eyes brought back old memories. Only this time around, it was something more than just juvenile rivalry; there was something else, something sedulously hidden beneath the casual surface. It was something dangerous, almost wanton—something Harry was not quite ready to unpack. He didn’t want to know how his own face looked.

Malfoy chuckled lowly.

“What?”

“All of this… It’s just interesting.” He still had that mischievous look, like he’d learned the mysteries of the Universe.

Harry frowned. “How so?” 

“Certain things end up being… different,” He lifted his gaze to look straight at Harry. It made him sweat. “Than we initially perceive them.”

Harry nearly knocked over the candle. “Yeah, uh. Yeah, they do.”

The tension dissipated once again, as the server reemerged with a million-watt smile. “Are we ready to order, gentlemen?”

Harry stumbled to open the forgotten menu. “Uh…” All the dishes had names he couldn’t even pronounce, let alone know what they were. He looked to Malfoy, a little helplessly.

“Shall I…?” He gestured vaguely and Harry nodded in relief, chuckling. Malfoy turned to the waiter. “Let’s see,” He tapped a finger to his lower lip. “For the entrée, we’ll take the _plateau de fromages_ , then we’ll both have the _bœuf bourguignon_ ,” The waiter nodded, scribbling down the order. 

“Any dessert, sir?” he asked.

“We shall see,” Malfoy turned a page, examining the wine list again. “Do you have _tarte tatin_?” he asked absently. 

“Certainly. As for the wine…”

“We’ll have the _Nuit-Saint-Georges_ ; it pairs perfectly with the beef,” Malfoy smiled politely and handed the menu back. 

“I couldn’t agree more, sir; I see you’re a connoisseur,” The waiter replied excitedly. “Is there anything else?”

Harry watched the exchange with fascination. Of course Malfoy spoke French, the posh bastard. And he knew about wines, all suave and sophisticated and captivating. Bidding farewell to his sanity, Harry undid the top button of his shirt.

“N- no, ah. That will be all, thank you,” Malfoy stammered, shooting him a quick glance. Harry pretended he didn’t see him slip.

A few minutes later, the waiter was back with their wine. He poured just a little bit for Malfoy and the tosser made a whole show of swirling it around in his glass, smelling it, and taking a sip that was too tiny to even taste anything, in Harry’s opinion. 

When Malfoy approved the wine, murmuring a few sentences in French to the waiter, Harry gave him an exasperated look. “What’s all that for, anyway?”

Malfoy huffed amusedly. “I’m going to go on a limb here and assume you know absolutely nothing about wine.”

“No need to rub it in my face,” Harry grumbled. “Just all that swirling and sipping, and— all that,” He gestured chaotically. “It seems... excessive?”

“You swirl it to oxidize the wine, Potter, you absolute heathen,” Malfoy retorted with a strange fondness to his tone. “Some of the alcohol evaporates and it releases the aroma compounds. And if it doesn’t taste good, you return it.”

Harry frowned. “What? You can return it?”

“Of course you can! If it’s faulty, as in corked or acidic, you return it.” He looked at Harry incredulously. “Didn’t you know that?”

“I’m more of a beer kind of bloke,” He grinned. Malfoy’s knowledge was, in fact, quite impressive, but Harry wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying so. “Goes down easier.”

Malfoy bit back a smile. “I’m sure it does.” Harry flushed a little as the double entendre became apparent. “Well,” Malfoy prompted, “go on, try it.”

He filled Harry’s glass about halfway, pouring from the fancy decanter. Harry lifted it, sniffed the burgundy drink and took a generous sip. 

The wine was… amazing. It tasted a bit like cherries, with a note of black currants; the smell was almost leathery—a deep, rich aroma warming his nose. Harry didn’t have the knowledge (all that clandestine lore on wine and manners that Malfoy was probably instilled with since puberty) but hummed appreciatively nonetheless, actively hoping it wasn’t a moan.

Malfoy was staring, a little disturbed. “Well?” He asked, voice unnaturally high.

“It’s— wow,” Harry took another sip, more restrained this time. “I hate to agree with you, but it tastes fantastic,” He said, smirking.

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy was terrible at hiding his smugness. A rush of adrenaline surged through Harry at that glimmer of the old Malfoy; it was gone in a flash, replaced by a rare slant to the curve of his mouth—not quite a sneer; not exactly a smile. It didn’t seem that Malfoy deliberately hid that spark of his past self, not really; perhaps his heart just wasn’t in it anymore—almost as if sometime during the last ten years, Malfoy discovered some life-changing truths about human interaction.

Or maybe—hopefully, if only a little—it was something about Harry, too.

“Of course it does.” Malfoy licked his lips. “And you’ll love the food as well, I expect.”

“Well, you did raise the bar pretty high.”

Taking a sip of his wine, Malfoy glanced at Harry thoughtfully. “Since you’ve just let me go rogue, I hope you don’t have any allergies?”

Harry shrugged. “Um, not that I know of?”

“Lactose intolerance? I ordered a platter of french cheeses,” Malfoy prodded.

Harry thought of that one time he and Ron got completely drunk and ate so much macaroni and cheese he threw up until six in the morning. “Nope.”

“Right,” Malfoy hesitated. “How about you tell me what the Golden Boy’s been up to these past years while we wait?” He smirked. That uncertain gleam was still in his eyes, and Harry smiled.

He started talking.

***

By the time they were done with the entrée, Harry had told Malfoy about his life, the Auror training, and about some cases he worked over the years. And then, inexplicably, he also told him about his friends, about becoming a godfather to Rose and Teddy, about the press constantly tormenting him, and about all the Ministry functions he didn’t want to attend. All the stories, the rendition of his life in the past years, slipped from his mouth so easily one would believe they’ve been friends for years. He just kept talking, and Malfoy kept listening, and Harry felt the last of the tension ebb away as if it was never there.

Malfoy was… shockingly easy to talk to. He listened with interest, eyes practically sparkling, piped in with questions, made jokes, and gave Harry all those private little smiles that made his heart stop for a split second. He caught himself staring a few times, but it was probably because of the candlelight hitting Malfoy’s face at strangely flattering angles.

In exchange, Harry asked him about his life, and Malfoy supplied. He spoke animatedly about his travels, about training to be a Curse Breaker after his probation ended, about all the places he visited and people he met. It was… _enchanting_ ; Harry listened, fascinated, imagining Malfoy opening cursed tombs, breaking ancient seals and wandering all over the world, redeeming himself for the wizarding world to see. He was back in England now, after having built quite a reputation for himself working for private contractors.

And that was it, wasn’t it? Harry felt almost _proud_ of Malfoy, and then immediately felt bad because, well, he didn’t have the right to feel that. He’d only testified on Malfoy’s behalf; he did what was right, what anybody with an ounce of empathy would have done. But the redemption, all that hard work, all those years away from home, putting himself in harm’s way? That was all Malfoy. It made something stir deep in Harry’s gut, hot and restless. He hadn’t felt anything like that in years, and it scared him a little, because it put a huge, fat question mark next to a load of things that Harry preferred to have stowed away in some deep, dark corner of his heart.

He considered the man before him. “You’ve changed, Malfoy,” Harry grinned at the surprise on his face. 

“I’ve grown to... appreciate muggle fine dining during my travels,” Malfoy said thoughtfully, and Harry huffed; of course he chose to talk about the food, ever the judicious Slytherin. Grey eyes bore into him, almost as if to say: _not yet_. _I’m not ready to talk about it_. Harry understood.

Then again, the shocking declaration—provided willingly and out loud—was something Harry had never expected to hear from Draco Malfoy, at least not the version of him from ten years ago.

“Yeah, me too,” he replied, thinking better than to make a joke. “Also, the Prophet reporters rarely wander around muggle areas.”

The server interrupted them, bringing the main course, and Harry’s mouth watered at the smell. So far, the food was delicious; the sharp cheeses served with figs, nuts, and grapes were a brilliant combination and left a lovely aftertaste that lingered on his tongue. And if their fingers brushed a few times when they reached for something, sending a pleasant wave of warmth up his arm, well, Harry wasn’t going to question it.

“Well, Potter, colour me surprised,” He said, tongue darting out to catch a stray droplet of wine on his lower lip. Harry dug his fingers into his napkin. “I had always thought you enjoyed all the fame and attention.”

Harry scowled at him but he couldn’t quite find it in himself to get annoyed, not with the way Malfoy was smiling as he teased him. “I recall quite a few articles about you, too, you tosser. They documented those cursebreaking exploits quite well.”

“Golly, Potter, I’m flattered.” He put his hand over his heart in mock-wonder. “Did you cut them out to frame and cherish as the years passed by?”

Harry snorted. “Go fuck yourself.”

“I would, but what’s the fun in that?” Malfoy smirked, watching Harry nearly choke on his food. When he finally caught his breath, the smirk turned almost predatory and Harry felt _something_ brush up his calf: a slow, barely-there drag of Malfoy’s foot.

He jumped, hitting the table hard enough that the glasses rattled. Malfoy, the bastard, continued eating as if nothing happened. Harry vaguely recalled his first aid Auror training and wondered if the pounding in his chest was the first symptom of an oncoming heart attack. He felt hot all over, treacherous warmth spreading to the back of his neck. He took a generous gulp of his wine.

“Do you like it?” Malfoy’s low voice broke the silence.

“W-what?” He stumbled. “I, uh… I—”

“The food, Potter.” He watched Harry with hooded eyes. “Do you like the food?”

“Oh! Um, yeah. Y-yes, it’s… really— good.”

Malfoy smiled cryptically, as if he just didn’t blatantly flirt with Harry, and turned his attention back to his plate. Harry’s flush was back. The fireplace. It was just the damn fireplace.

***

They talked through the whole meal, exchanging stories and seemingly innocent looks. As the wine slowly disappeared from the decanter, the glances lingered just a bit longer, and there was just a little more heat behind them. When they were waiting for dessert, Harry made a quick mental list as his inappropriate thoughts cornered him again. It was time to unpack, even though facing the facts was going to get him in big trouble.

As if it ever hadn’t.

One. Draco Malfoy was absolutely gorgeous. If Harry was being crude, he would have said he wanted to lick every bone on that body; for a brief second, he closed his eyes in pain at the visual pun. Malfoy was just… attractive, objectively speaking. He was still pointy and pale but filled out in all the right places, had the type of cheekbones Harry would cut himself slapping, and that hair, and lips that he wanted to feel all over his skin. But it was no big deal. People found other people attractive and Harry wouldn’t panic about it too much if it wasn’t for—

Two. _Harry_ was attracted to Draco Malfoy. All objectivity aside, he couldn’t ignore his body’s ridiculous reactions any longer. His heart skipped a beat every time Malfoy smiled at his jokes, his stomach jumped at every accidental touch, and the amount of time Harry spent staring at Malfoy’s mouth couldn’t fall into the ‘socially acceptable’ category by any stretch. And even if he were to ignore the hair, the cheekbones, and the damn leather jacket, Harry was having a _good time_. He was on a date with someone passionate, smart, cheeky, and just the perfect mix of sweet and biting. Harry was breathless and bothered and, judging from Malfoy’s sly glances and downright wicked smiles, the bastard could see right through him. And as oblivious as Harry usually was, he couldn’t help but see how Malfoy looked at him, too.

Three. Harry didn’t want their date to end after dessert. As if that wasn’t harrowing enough, he also wasn’t strictly opposed to the idea of a _second date_. In the future. It was still Malfoy, and he was still a right git but he was also hot, and funny, and charming, and Harry promptly decided he would have a breakdown about all of it later.

Was this… inevitable, in a way? Was this version of Draco Malfoy always there, hidden under the sneers, the insults, and Lucius’ destructive breeding? Would they have ended up like this sooner, if only they had given it a chance, if they weren’t both so stubborn? Peculiar, how two boys, so different that they almost killed each other, turned out to be so alike that the knowledge of it took their breaths away. Harry’s head spun as all the what-ifs came crashing down on him.

“Potter?” The man in question was watching him, blessedly unaware of Harry’s internal turmoil.

“Oh! Uh, sorry,” he blushed, probably for the thousandth time that night, and shook his head. “Just… Spaced out for a second there.”

The waiter brought their dessert; _tarte tatin,_ Malfoy had said. It smelled heavenly and looked even better, the caramelized apples taking on a golden sheen in the dim light, drizzled with salted caramel and accompanied by a neat scoop of vanilla ice cream. Harry was already pretty full but his mouth watered at the sight nonetheless.

“So,” Malfoy picked up his fork and dug it into his food. “Do share, Potter, what had you so lost in thought?” He arched an eyebrow, almost in a challenge.

_That I’d rather eat this off of your naked body, you stupid prat._

“Just, er, this?” Harry gestured between them. “Us? I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“Civil?”

“Nice.”

Malfoy’s fork wavered halfway to his mouth as the tips of his cheeks turned pink. Harry chuckled lowly and took the first bite of the tart. And, _oh_. Malfoy’s description didn’t give it any justice; it tasted delicious, a perfect combination of sweet and tangy, virtually melting in his mouth—hot baked apples and cold ice cream, broken by the saltiness of the caramel. He couldn’t help but moan around the bite and this time, it was Malfoy who nearly choked.

Harry tried really hard to contain his satisfaction. “All right there, Malfoy? This,” he pointed to his plate. “Is magnificent.”

“Ah. Yes, it’s— Yes, I think so, too,” he replied shakily.

The atmosphere grew tenser by the minute as they finished up. Even their waiter seemed uncomfortable as they split the check and paid. Harry was restless, something he was too scared to name simmering deep in his gut as he watched Malfoy finish the last of his wine, his adam’s apple bobbing enticingly at the pale column of his throat. Harry wanted to suck on it, but that was all right, he had already accepted his insanity.

They stood up at the same time; silence stretched between them, full of question and anticipation.

“So—” Malfoy started.

“I—uh,” Harry said at the same time. They both laughed nervously. 

Malfoy gestured to Harry. “You first.”

“I… This is silly,” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I never thanked you, you know.”

“Whatever for?” Malfoy’s brows knitted together.

“Saving my life. Back… You know. In- in the Manor,” Harry let out a long exhale. “So. Thank you. You saved us.”

Malfoy opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Potter, I… If anything, I should be thanking you.” He stared at Harry, incredulous. “For the same thing, with— with the Fiendfyre. And then, you spoke at my trial. And you gave me my wand back, and—” He huffed. “I don’t know how the fuck I can even begin to repay such a debt, I—”

Harry lifted a hand, stopping him. He took a step closer, putting his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. He froze immediately but all Harry felt was scorching heat. He shouldn’t have touched, no matter how badly he wanted to. “It’s all right. It’s been years.” He looked straight into the grey eyes. “We’re all right.”

Malfoy slumped a little, seemingly relaxed but still strung so tightly he could snap. He glanced at Harry from under his lashes. “Right,” His eyes darted to Harry’s mouth, only for a fraction of a second.

“Side-along me?” Harry asked without thinking, holding out his elbow. His ears were ringing.

Malfoy stared, lips slightly parted in surprise.

Seeing his expression, Harry laughed nervously, diffusing the tension a bit. “We live next door, you git.”

“Y- yes. You’re right, that would be… wise.” The blond stammered, flushing beautifully. Looking at Harry with curiosity, he stepped closer. 

Harry clenched his jaw and prayed not to splinch them both. It was hard enough to focus during dinner, with Malfoy licking his lips all the time, and tucking that long strand of hair behind his ear, and brushing Harry’s calf with his foot. And now, there was also his body heat, that bloody cologne that smelled like pure sex, and strong, slender fingers wrapping around Harry’s bicep and going _lower_. Merlin save him.

Thundery grey eyes met green as Malfoy practically stroked his hand down Harry’s arm to finally slide his fingers just underneath the cuff of his shirt, encircling his wrist. Harry’s head spun; if those hands had that effect oh his _wrist_ , he didn’t dare think what would happen if—

“Let’s go then, Potter,” Malfoy whispered.

Just as Harry’s magic started to pull them into the aether, he felt Malfoy’s hand lock with his. His heart jumped and everything went dark.

***

The landing was less than graceful. 

Upon hitting solid ground, Harry lost his balance and fell backward into a wall, pulling Malfoy with him. With their hands still clasped together, the blond stumbled and landed on Harry’s chest with a soft _oomph_.

The second Harry realized where they were, he actually thought that a little splinch was nothing compared to this.

“Potter,” Malfoy murmured after a long pause. “Are we in your bedroom?” 

“Um,” He breathed. “I- I must’ve missed my mark a bit.”

Every contact point between their bodies felt searingly hot—the firm plane of Malfoy’s chest, their shoulders brushing together, his knees bumping against Harry’s. Malfoy remained frozen in place and Harry couldn’t decide where to look, finally settling on the other man’s lips, which, in hindsight, was probably the last place he should have looked. 

“What… What were you thinking about?” Malfoy asked, a little out of breath but with sudden clarity that Harry didn’t like one bit.

He had to physically take his eyes off of Malfoy’s mouth before he did something reckless. “Just— Home?”

Suddenly, Malfoy exhaled softly and his eyes darkened. “You’re lying, Potter.”

And, technically, he was right. It was his fucking fault, anyway — looking at Harry like that, carefully grazing him with those damn fingers like Harry was something to explore, to feel. The hand that was entangled with Malfoy’s felt clammy and Harry needed air, needed to calm the raging heat building behind his sternum. He shook his head slightly, a little helplessly, and that only spurred Malfoy on as he pressed Harry closer to the wall.

All the systems in Harry’s brain went into shutdown. 

“You see,” he said, watching Harry’s reaction, “I’m attuned to powerful magic. It’s in my job description, right under understanding how such magic functions.” His voice dropped an octave as he leaned further into Harry’s personal space. “So let me explain how this works, Potter. If a wizard’s magic is strong enough, they sometimes let it... _slip_.” A single shudder overtook Harry’s whole body at the way the word curled around Malfoy’s tongue. He was closer now, practically whispering into Harry’s ear, hot breath tickling the sensitive skin. “Particularly when they experience unusually strong emotions.” Harry inhaled sharply as Malfoy’s lower lip brushed against the shell of his ear, a barely-there touch that sent scalding heat straight to his pants. “When they… lose control.”

Malfoy disentangled his hand from Harry’s and let his fingers slowly travel up the length of Harry’s arm. It was excruciating, each touch sending a jolt of electricity all over his skin—and that was _over_ the clothes, for the love of Merlin.

“And _your_ magic, Potter, is… exceptional,” Malfoy panted against his neck and Harry thought he might be dying. “It’s tempestuous, turbulent, _savage_ ,” he inhaled deeply, still barely touching Harry, still restraining himself. “If I were to cast a diagnostic charm, this room would light up like a Christmas tree; it’s all over the place, I can _feel_ it, Potter,” He growled.

His hand found Harry’s shoulder and slid further up, to the back of his neck, grabbing Harry by the hair, hard enough to make him feel as if he was on fire. At that point, Harry was fully hard and undone; he finally let out a low, shameless moan as Malfoy pressed them flush together, his own arousal evident through the fabric of his trousers.

“So stop fucking _lying_ ,” Malfoy punctuated the words with a sharp thrust of his hips that made Harry see stars, “and tell me: _what were you thinking about when we disapparated_?” 

Malfoy leaned back, just enough to look straight into Harry’s eyes, barely an inch between them. It was over; there was no denying it, Harry thought—he wanted this. If they didn’t get naked in the next thirty seconds, Harry was pretty sure he was going to pass out.

He leaned in, ever so slightly, their lips almost touching, and Malfoy sucked in a breath. “Just,” he whispered and closed the distance.

The second their lips touched, Harry realized that going forward, he was completely and utterly ruined. Because as far as kisses went, kissing Draco Malfoy was a bloody religious experience. There was no coaxing, no shy preambles, only pure, animalistic want; the filthy drag of tongues and clattering of teeth. Malfoy kissed with his whole body: hands grabbing and pulling, hips grinding, tongue licking into Harry’s wanting mouth as if he was a water spring and Malfoy had been lost in the desert his entire life. And Harry kissed him back, sliding the band off his hair and burying his fingers in the white-gold strands. Soon after, he discovered he could probably come just from the sounds Malfoy made when having his hair pulled.

They broke apart, panting, and Malfoy went for Harry’s neck, kissing and nibbling, peppering the soft skin with little bites and sucks that were sure to leave marks. 

“ _Fuck_ , Malfoy,” Harry gasped, grabbing Malfoy’s arse to slot their clothed erections together in the tight space between them. “I— Ah! Fuck, I…” 

“You liked it, didn’t you? You thought about it,” Malfoy dragged his teeth over Harry’s neck, making him shiver. “There’s no shame in admitting it, Potter. You were listening to me fuck that bloke and you wished it was you.”

“That’s— ahh,” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. They were wearing too many clothes and it was driving him mad.

“You listened to me wank and you did the same, imagining it was my hand on your cock.” He looked Harry in the eyes as his hand slid down to the front of Harry’s trousers, swift fingers brushing him through the thick fabric. Harry moaned and buried his face in the crook of Malfoy’s neck, mouthing at his pulse point.

When he finally found his brain, Harry pushed at Malfoy’s shoulders. “Bed,” he growled, and licked into his mouth, steering him backwards. 

Malfoy finally fell on top of the covers and Harry followed suit, straddling his hips. Fingers working on Malfoy’s tie, Harry kissed him messily, slow and hot. The shirt buttons were next, and then, finally, there was just skin. The blond gasped under him as Harry kissed and bit his collarbone, his shoulder, his neck. “Potter, ah—”

“And you?” Harry whispered against Malfoy’s mouth. “You didn’t regret it for a second. You liked it as much as I did.” He ground his hips down and they both moaned.

Malfoy’s hand moved up from Harry’s groin and under his shirt, fingers teasing a nipple, making him gasp. “Of course I did.” He bit Harry’s lower lip, laving the spot with his tongue right after. “And when I saw you— _Fuck_. I wanted it,” he whispered frantically. “I wanted _you_.”

Harry straightened and started undoing the buttons on his own shirt. Malfoy looked up at him, dark eyes greedily following the movement, hands rubbing Harry’s thighs. 

The blond gasped when Harry shucked off his shirt and flipped them over. He grinned at the pure, ferocious _want_ in Malfoy’s touch, pale fingers stark against his bronze skin, touching, brushing, exploring. Harry’s hands went to Malfoy’s belt.

“Well then,” He whispered, savouring Malfoy’s low groan as he unfastened the buckle. “You better put your money where your filthy mouth is.”

***

Harry woke up as the grey dawn slowly crept in through the window. He was a little sore from the night’s events, and his heart jumped at the memory. It was safe to say that Malfoy was not overcompensating; he’d given Harry a breathtaking repeat performance—this time, finally, in person. Harry made a mental note to check if there was a dent where headboard met wall.

He turned, hissing at the slight pain in his muscles, and started when he saw Malfoy, propped up on his elbow, looking at Harry with a strange, calm, softness.

“What time is it?” he asked Malofy.

“It’s after four. Maybe five,” he replied. Harry must have dozed off for a bit after all their… strenuous activities.

“Were you… watching me sleep?” 

Malfoy raised an amused brow. “Let’s see. In the past few hours, I watched you come on my cock not once, but twice, not to mention that one time in my mouth,” He chuckled at Harry’s furious blush, inching closer. “And you’re squeamish about me watching you sleep?”

“Well, not if you put it that way,” Harry grumbled, face still hot.

There was a pause; sighing, Malfoy crawled over and lay on top of Harry, pinning him to the bed. Harry groaned softly at the touch of another naked body on his own; he was completely wrung out— in a _very_ good way, but he was not entirely sure he was up for another round just yet. 

Malfoy, however, made no move, just propped himself up on Harry’s chest and gave him a knowing look. “You’re thinking.”

“What?” Harry mumbled, frowning. “No I’m not.”

“I can practically _hear_ it, Potter,” Malfoy rolled his eyes but when he spoke again, his voice was soft. “Well? Out with it.”

Harry sighed heavily, his chest barely lifting with Malfoy’s weight on top of it. He brought his hand up to stroke the long, silvery streaks of hair spilling beautifully all over Malfoy’s back. The blond hummed appreciatively, closing his eyes and shifting to give Harry better access. “Come on, Potter,” he murmured.

“I’m just— ugh,” Harry dropped his head on the pillows. He didn’t know how to broach the topic in a Slytherin way, as Malfoy would surely appreciate, so he dived right in, the Gryffindor way. “So. That bloke from last week, er. Is that— um, serious?” He groaned and covered his face with his free hand. “Merlin, I sound like a girl.”

Malfoy chuckled and pressed a small kiss to Harry’s chest. “Jealous, Potter?” 

“Yeah, okay, forget I said anything,” he deadpanned, rolling his eyes. Malfoy lifted his hand and traced a line from Harry’s collarbone to his jaw with one finger.

“I distinctly remember dedicating an entire letter to this,” he said carefully, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “I’m not… _with_ anyone, or cheating on anyone, for that matter. Last week was a drunken, one-night thing.”

“And what about this?” He gestured vaguely around them. “Was this a one-night thing?” Harry asked quietly, keeping any emotion out of his voice.

Malfoy crawled up to Harry’s level and, straddling him, placed a languid kiss to the base of his neck, slowly going up. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

The mood suddenly shifted and Harry sucked in a sharp breath. “That— ah. T-that doesn’t make me anything.”

Malfoy seemed to ignore what he said. “No need for that. All those other men? Nameless. I forget their faces as soon as they’re out of the door,” he purred against his skin. “You, however, have always been,” he pulled Harry’s earlobe into his mouth and sucked, making Harry’s hips buck, “something different.”

“Is that so?” Harry gasped, already having trouble focusing with Malfoy’s mouth on him, and he briefly thought that maybe he could go again after all.

“I let it slip in the note, recklessly. You’ve always had an _effect_ on me,” Malfoy breathed against his cheek. “And here we are,” he slowly rolled his hips, just once, and Harry whimpered softly.

He carded his fingers through the moonlight hair, down Malfoy’s spine, right to the dimples just below his back. “Yeah. Here we are.”

“So now, you tell me, Potter,” he licked and kissed a trail down Harry’s neck, whispering against his pulse point. “How long? Which note did it? When did you know you wanted me back?”

“Fuck, Malfoy,” Harry groaned, hoping to change the subject. He did remember the exact moment he realized there was something _more_ about Draco Malfoy. He just wasn’t sure he should share that tidbit. It was a well-contained, deeply repressed and rarely pondered over part of his subconscious that Harry hadn’t had the chance to examine in nearly ten years.

Malfoy straightened and looked down at Harry, breathing heavily. He smirked, voice hoarse and demanding. “When?”

Harry lay there, looking up at his former rival and enemy, now deliciously debauched and tousled, grinning at him with sin in his eyes. And, _fuck_ , was he gorgeous. His hair thrown to the side, gleaming like white gold, the faint scars on his chest that made Harry’s throat tight with guilt, and the faded Dark Mark on his left forearm, the symbol of a past long gone.

He wasn’t sure if it was Malfoy himself, or the serotonin rush, or something else entirely that made him utter his next words.

“When you gave me your wand.”

Malfoy froze, mouth slightly open. Grey eyes were staring into his as if he had gone mad but Harry held his gaze, firm, almost defiant. The blond looked completely stunned and if Harry didn’t know any better, he’d say Malfoy was having a stroke. 

“W- What?” He managed to choke out, finally finding his voice. It was stripped of all emotion and Harry wanted to throw up. 

“I- I don’t know why I told you that,” He stammered, praying for Malfoy to drop it. “I’m sor—”

“Fuck, Potter,” he breathed. “ _Come here._ ”

He grabbed Harry’s face and lunged forward to shut him up with a deep, hungry kiss. It was different from all the kisses they shared that night; slow and lazy, the sweet slide of tongues making Harry’s head spin. He flipped them over, savouring Malfoy’s soft gasp, and kissed him more, grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck, rolling his hips with purpose, revelling in their growing arousal.

“Wait, fuck, _wait_ —” Malfoy whispered, putting his hands on his shoulders.

Harry looked at him in confusion. “What?” He looked down pointedly and smirked. “I thought we’d…”

“Oh my _God_ , Potter,” Malfoy laughed breathlessly and planted a messy kiss at the corner of Harry’s mouth. “As much as I would love to continue, I’d rather not embarrass myself by falling asleep while, quite literally, inside you.”

Harry chuckled, a strange weight lifted off his shoulders. “What makes you think I’d let you top again?”

Malfoy’s smile was downright predatory. “How about we discuss it over breakfast?”

“You would stay over?”

“I usually don’t,” Malfoy licked into his mouth again, letting out a low moan at the way Harry opened up to his hot tongue. They parted for air, their spit-slick lips barely touching. “But this time, I want to.”

“I’ll hold you to that, then,” Harry murmured. He shifted to the side and wrapped himself around an unsuspecting Malfoy, chest to back, inhaling his heady scent.

“Potter—” Malfoy started, a little stiffly.

“Shut up and go to sleep, Draco.” 

He planted a last, wet kiss at the top of Malfoy’s spine and drifted off.

***

Harry woke up alone.

He wasn’t mad, not exactly. Maybe a little annoyed, mostly at himself. There was no reason to think that Malfoy would still be there when he woke up, now, was there? He didn’t make any promises, he just off-handedly mentioned breakfast. He had probably left as soon as Harry had fallen asleep.

Malfoy didn’t overthink it and neither should Harry. They’d had sex once (well, okay, they’d had sex three times in one night — did it count as one?). Mindblowing, toe-curling, gut-wrenching, athletic sex that would fuel his every wet dream going forward, but still.

So Harry had to stop staring at the ceiling, get up, and get on with his life, only now, knowing what Draco Malfoy looked like with Harry’s come on his face.

The sound of the front door closing startled him back to reality. Harry shrugged on a night robe and trotted down the hall. 

Malfoy stood in his kitchen, wearing only a pair of Harry’s boxers, holding a carton of milk. His platinum hair was tied into a low, messy bun, loose strands framing his face; a faint trail of bruises and lovebites adorned his neck and chest, and the sight sent a flash of heat down Harry’s spine. He’d found some similar ones on the insides of his thighs when he was getting up.

All in all, Malfoy looked like an adult-only cereal commercial; Harry absently hoped that Teddy would be okay with switching to pancakes when he stayed over in the future. 

Leaving the milk on the counter, Malfoy strode over to him and Harry stood there like a statue, his brain not quite catching up. 

“Good morning,” he smirked, seeing Harry’s expression, and caught his lips in a languid kiss. Harry barely kissed him back, still too confused to process.

“Uh…” He looked down and the blond bit his lip.

“Yes, well, I couldn’t find mine so—”

“You left,” Harry blurted.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “I did,” he said and looked at the clock. “Three minutes ago, to be exact. I wonder, how on Earth exactly do you take your tea if you don’t have any milk, you barbarian?”

“And… you’re back.”

He watched Harry with growing concern. “An astute observation, Potter.”

The cogs finally started turning in his sleep-addled head. “So you stayed.”

“Well, I went next door, you know, _where I live_ , to get some milk so we can have tea like proper Englishmen,” Malfoy brows knitted together. “Is this some strange game where we state the obvious?”

Harry’s frown deepened. He actually stayed? He didn’t bolt as soon as the coast was clear?

“Because I,” Malfoy stepped closer and whispered in his ear, “cannot stop thinking how naked you are under that robe.”

“I— I just didn’t expect you to— y’know. Actually stay,” Harry looked at him in wonder while his idiot mouth kept going.

A long pause stretched between them and something changed in Malfoy’s face. Something was wrong.

“I see,” He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I’ll— Ah. I’ll get out of your hair, then.”

Realization finally hit and Harry jumped to stop him. “Wha— Wait!” He grabbed Malfoy by the waist and spun him around, pulling him flush against himself. He was looking at Harry with bewilderment, clearly not following, and Harry couldn’t really blame him.

“Wait, fuck,” He let out a strangled laugh. “Give me a second.”

“Potter, I’m not—”

Harry shut him up with a lazy kiss. “I woke up alone. I thought you left.” He laughed again, and at that point, Malfoy must have decided he was deranged. “But you didn’t. You stayed,” He kissed him again and this time, thank Merlin, Malfoy kissed him back. “So how about that breakfast?”

A slow grin spread to Malfoy’s lips. “Good grief, Potter, I must have shagged you silly last night.”

“I’m not complaining.” Harry gave him a wicked smile. “Pancakes all right?”

***

Harry prepared the meal with a half-naked Draco Malfoy perched on his kitchen counter, telling him Cursebreaker stories. They ate their pancakes, sharing maple syrup kisses, laughing and teasing. Something just… _clicked_ ,and it was thrilling, and exciting, and maybe a little bit scary but it’s been a long time since Harry had enjoyed someone’s company that much.

And if that someone ended up being Draco Malfoy, well, stranger things had happened.

They made out in the kitchen for a while, and then moved to the bed, falling on top of it in a heap of laughter and tangled limbs. Their kisses turned slower as the morning’s bliss simmered into something deeper, almost tangible.

Harry lay on his stomach, half of his body draped over Malfoy’s. The light pink scars slashing across his chest made Harry’s stomach heavy as he traced a finger over the slightly raised flesh. Malfoy shot him a warning look. _Don’t._

Huddling a bit closer, Harry kissed his collarbone and studied the sharp, aristocratic profile, the golden hair glowing like a halo in the morning light, the purple lovebites along the tendon on his neck.

“Draco.”

He turned his head slowly. There was a crease between his brows as if Harry just said something ludicrous. “Is you calling me by my name going to be a frequent occurrence?”

Harry chuckled, his hand brushing Draco’s jawbone. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

He raised his eyebrows, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Getting witty, I see,” He let out a long breath. “Well, I’m buck naked in your bed, Potter, so I suppose we’re past the point of… whatever it was.”

“You could try it, too, you know,” Harry looked at him knowingly. “Calling me ‘Harry,’ that is.”

Malfoy outright snorted. “Not going to happen.”

“Oh, you—” Harry climbed on him and Draco yelped as he tried to squirm away. “Bloody wanker!”

They wrestled a bit, and the tickling and teasing grew heated again. Draco ended up on top, kissing him deeply. There was a long pause when they parted, gazing at each other as something unspoken hung heavy, spread over the inch of air between them.

Harry’s heart sped up as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind Draco’s ear; his hand travelled lower, fingers carding through the long strands. Draco was so close, he could smell the maple syrup on his lips—and probably taste it, too, if he leaned in just a bit.

“Do you— Um. D’you think we should talk?” Harry could pinpoint the second Draco’s eyes changed; suddenly, the weight on top of him became suffocating and yet, at that moment, he didn’t know what he’d do if it were to disappear.

Draco sighed. “Probably,” He refused to look at him, so Harry craned his neck to get his attention. “At some… point. If this is to, ah. Continue.” He blinked, expression unreadable. “Whatever _this_ is.”

“Would _you_ like to continue?” Harry licked his lips. “Whatever this is?”

“Oh. Well,” Malfoy seemed surprised at the question, at the choice. Harry was giving him an out, which, historically speaking, probably wasn’t something Malfoy was used to in his life. “There’s a lot of… baggage. Between us.”

Harry just nodded, feeling Draco wasn’t done speaking.

“But it has always been— well,” He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Rather difficult to, er, stay away.”

“Ha,” Harry’s cheeks felt hot. “Yeah. And, for the record, I’d like that. You know.”

“The talking bit?”

“And the continuing bit, too. If you’re up for it.”

Harry decided not to make too much of their frantic heartbeats, bouncing off each other where their chests touched. It felt like an out-of-synch tennis match where the players were drunk and unhinged. 

To be fair, all of this was at least a little bit unhinged.

He was positive Draco could feel it, too.

Draco bit back a soft smile, silver eyes boring into Harry. “It’s going to be messy, Potter.” Delicate fingers brushed over Harry’s cheekbone. “And I mean, _really fucking messy_ ; think, I don’t know, the Goblin Wars?” Harry snorted at that. “Or— or the loos at the Quidditch Cup?”

Harry groaned, laughing. “Shut up, please.” He leaned up for a chaste kiss. “Just… shut up, Jesus.” He rolled them over to the side and pulled him closer. “Yeah, well, our lives were always kind of messy, though.”

“Understatement of the century, Potter.”

“Tosser.”

Malfoy just smirked. “So. Let’s try this… talking thing,” He grimaced and then yelped as Harry poked him in the ribs. “Fuck, you bloody git! I bruise like a peach!”

Harry’s laugh was muffled in the crook of Draco’s neck. He looked at the grumpy blonde and brushed away the crease between his brows with a soft kiss. “Okay. Let’s try.”

“Over dinner,” Draco said. “And to make it perfectly clear this time, I’m asking you out on a second date, you halfwit. And you’re going to accept.”

“Why am I so attracted to you right now?” Harry asked in a disbelieving tone.

“Off the top of my head? I’m brilliant, extremely good-looking, I give spectacular head, and hmmpf—” Harry shut him up by putting his tongue in his mouth.

***

After another heavy makeout session (and, honestly, why was it so hard to stop?), Draco lazily cast a wandless _Tempus_ and sighed; the day had already progressed well into the afternoon and, to be fair, all they had done was sleep, eat pancakes, and kiss. A lot.

Oh, and they’d kind of decided to try talking about stuff. And maybe dating.

“I should go,” Draco murmured, hands skitting across Harry’s ribs.

“Mhmm,” Harry hooked his leg over Malfoy’s hip, making him groan. “ _Or_ you could stay,”

“You’re insatiable.”

Harry ignored the comment. “And we could take a shower so I can blow you again,” He licked a trail up Draco’s neck, eliciting a low moan. “ _And_ we could go back to bed so I can have my wicked way with you.”

Malfoy hummed in mock-seriousness. “You make a compelling argument, Auror Potter,” He hissed in pleasure as Harry wrapped himself around his body, rolling their hips together in a slow, lazy rhythm.

“And then— ah,” Harry gasped at the noticeable response of Draco’s body. “ _Then_ , we could have that dinner.”

Suddenly, the delectable heat was gone, and before Harry could register what happened, a half-hard, naked Draco Malfoy was standing next to his bed. He smirked, noticing the hungry, shameless way in which Harry was ogling him.

“Well then, what are you waiting for, Potter?” He teased, promptly turning around and walking out of the room with a devilish smile.

Harry nearly fell out of bed, hurrying after Draco’s naked form. This, he thought, might be the beginning of their biggest challenge yet.


End file.
